


falling

by chocolatebrownie



Category: Foreign Affairs (Visual Novel)
Genre: Banter, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Pining, Screen Reader Friendly, hot chocolate shenanigans, mc is SO horny i'm sorry y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29638482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatebrownie/pseuds/chocolatebrownie
Summary: Thank you for reading! :)
Relationships: Blaine Hayes/Main Character (Foreign Affairs), enby!mc/m!blaine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	falling

Kennedy looks down at their phone, their mother’s name glaring at them from the screen. It’s past ten at night, and yet she called, most likely to reprimand them on any news of them being seen with Blaine. It’s all she’d ever called about since they came to Vancross.

They drop the phone on the bed next to them and watch the call go to voicemail. They had a long day, and they aren't prepared to listen to their mother warning them off Blaine again, especially when she doesn’t listen to anything _they_ say—it’s like talking to wall, one that yells at them a lot.

_Blaine._ He’s everything Kennedy wishes they could be. He’d mostly separated his life from his parents, did things on his own terms, wasn’t afraid of the ramifications of standing up for himself. And he wanted more with Kennedy, regardless of the consequences—though Kennedy doesn’t know if they can say the same.

Kennedy glances out the window. The full moon is out, bathing the whole campus in silver. It reminds them of the colour of Blaine’s hair, the way it glinted under the lights at the club. The way it felt when Kennedy ran their hands through it, pulling him in for a kiss.

They jolt, pulling themself out of the memory. Being with Blaine is bad news, a decision neither of their parents would be happy with. Even if they kept it secret, it’s hard keeping things out of the media, especially when they tend to exaggerate things that aren’t even there. But Blaine is the only one who’s experiencing the same expectations, the same pressure—no-one could understand them better.

Kennedy sits straighter on their bed, an idea taking form in their mind. Dionne’s already asleep, Tatum and Murphy dismissed. And besides, it’s already dark. Any paparazzo lurking wouldn’t be able to catch anything—if any paparazzo was crazy enough to be lurking at this time, but they've learnt to be wary from past experiences. As they turn the idea over in their mind, their phone screen lights up with another call, making their mind up for them, and they get out of bed, donning a coat and sneaking out of the suite.

It’s easy enough. The floors are carpeted and their footsteps light. The door opens without a sound, and they're out into the chilly night, a single destination in mind.

The knock on the door reverberates and they wince. Nothing happens for a minute, and the absurdity of the situation hits them. People don’t knock on others’ doors so late at night. The sensible part of their brain insists they should just turn around and head back to bed… but they don’t want to.

Just as the rational part of their brain wins out, the door swings open to reveal Blaine, dressed in his pyjamas, an incredulous look on his face. His hair is ruffled in the most adorable way and Kennedy's hand itches to reach out and fix it. Instead, they shove their hand deeper into their coat pocket. Blaine’s eyebrows shoot up as he sees Kennedy.

Kennedy thinks they should be speaking by now. “Um… I—Never mind. Sorry, this was dumb.” They turn around to leave.

“Wait, Rutherland.” Blaine’s voice is surprisingly clear. Kennedy expected that he’d been asleep. “It’s fine. Come on in.”

Kennedy waits, expecting it to be a joke. But Blaine opens the door wider and they sag in relief, a weight seeming to leave them. They stand straighter as they enter. Blaine’s suite is almost identical to their own, and his suitemate nowhere to be seen. _Which makes sense, dumbass,_ their brain tells them.

“Coffee?” Blaine’s voice startles Kennedy out of their thoughts, and they look over to where the lights are now on in the kitchenette, Blaine hovering awkwardly.

“It’s almost midnight,” Kennedy says. They notice the coatrack and hang their coat up on it. 

Blaine moves over to the cupboards over the sink. He opens one and peers inside. “Tea, then? Hot chocolate? Something stronger?”

“Tea, I guess.” It doesn’t even matter to Kennedy anymore.

Blaine stops and studies them. Kennedy shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny as he appears to come to a decision. “No, we’re having hot chocolate.”

Kennedy just shrugs in response.

Blaine reaches to grab something in the back of the cupboard. The movement causes his shirt to ride up, and Kennedy's gaze is immediately drawn to the patch of skin it reveals. They want to run their hands over it. They want more than what they’ve got going on.

Then, Blaine straightens, the shirt covering him again, and Kennedy snaps out of it, cheeks warming in embarrassment. They watch Blaine shuffle around the kitchen, though their mind is elsewhere, until a loud noise brings them back: Blaine cracking open a store-bought container of powdered chocolate.

“That packaged stuff?” The memory of Blaine wondering whether corn or potatoes go in cake comes to them, and along with it, a realisation. “You have no idea how to make _real_ hot chocolate, do you?”

Blaine scoffs, though he looks a little uncomfortable. “Of course I do.”

Kennedy crosses their arms, a smile growing on their face. “From scratch? Let’s see it then.”

Without a response, Blaine bends down to pull out a saucepan from a cupboard under the stove, placing it on the burner. He heads to the fridge to take out the milk and pours it out into the pan. Kennedy watches, holding back laughter, at the miserable expression on Blaine’s face as he stares contemplatively at the stove.

“Unbelievable.” Kennedy is full-on grinning now. “I thought _Dionne_ is the princess here, not _you_.”

“You _know_ I would look great in a dress and tiara,” Blaine declares. He glances at the milk and sighs. “Okay, fine. You got me. Now what?”

Kennedy pushes off the wall they'd been leaning on and moves to stand beside Blaine. “We need chocolate, cocoa powder and sugar,” they list off the ingredients. “Please tell me you keep them stocked.”

“I’m not incapable of _everything_ ,” Blaine maintains as he gathers the ingredients.

“No,” Kennedy agrees, “just the important things.”

Blaine shoves them lightly and they burst into laughter. He reaches a hand out to shush them, inadvertently placing a hand against their mouth. “My suitemate—he’s sleeping.”

Kennedy stops, eyes widening at the feeling of Blaine’s hand on their mouth. They meet his gaze over his hand, and Blaine’s eyes focus with the same realisation. He lets his hand drop. “Sorry, Rutherland.” Kennedy is reminded of the first time they met, how Blaine pulled them into the alley to hide from the paparazzi and shushed them the same way, even apologised for it the same way.

“Don’t worry about it,” they say, turning back to the stove. The milk has heated up, and they add in the ingredients, stirring it as it dissolves. “You have whipped cream too, right?”

Blaine pulls a carton out the fridge. “We have whip _ping_ cream. And I’m sure we have mini marshmallows here somewhere.”

“As long as they’re not ancient.”

“They are _not_.” Blaine brings out a bowl and whisk. “How about I take over the stirring and you can whip the cream?”

“No way,” Kennedy grins. “I didn’t come here to do physical work. Besides, I’m the guest here.”

“I didn’t _invite_ you, you barged in in the middle of the night.”

“Oh come on, don’t tell me that those arms are just for show,” Kennedy teases.

Blaine smirks at them. “You’ve been checking out my arms, Rutherland?”

Kennedy's face warms. They can’t admit it—Blaine would never let them live it down. But they can’t deny it either. They settle on an exaggerated eye-roll. “You wish.”

There’s silence for a while save for the clink of the whisk against the bowl as Blaine works on the cream. Kennedy trains their gaze on the pan, sheepish all of a sudden. “I’m sorry”—Blaine glances up at that—“for barging in.”

“Don’t worry about it, I wasn’t asleep anyway.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “I just couldn’t.” He flashes a quick grin at Kennedy. “Maybe I was waiting for you to show up.” It couldn’t be more obvious that he’s deflecting—he’s at diplomacy school after all—but Kennedy is unwilling to press.

The hot chocolate is on the verge of boiling, prompting Kennedy to pour it out into the two mugs Blaine placed on the counter. They reach for the bowl of whipped cream before Blaine stops them.

“Wait, here.” Blaine pulls a bottle out of another shelf. He untwists the cap and pours some of it in their mugs. “This will make it so much better.”

“Are you going to tell me what that is?” Kennedy tries to read the name on the bottle before Blaine pushes it out of sight.

“Nope.” Blaine spoons the fresh whipped cream on the hot chocolate and adds the mini marshmallows. He hands a mug to Kennedy, giving them an expectant look as he takes the other for himself.

Kennedy takes a hesitant sip. It warms them from the inside-out, sending a shiver through their entire body. They feel like a little kid again, when their mother was in the early stages of her first campaign and actually had time for them. When they could pretend to be _normal_. “It’s _good_ ,” they say, pleased.

“The brandy made all the difference,” Blaine agrees.

“ _Brandy?_ ” Kennedy asks, disbelieving. “Is this why you insisted on hot chocolate?”

“Hey, you liked it, didn’t you?”

“Definitely. You know what this means?”

Blaine gives them a suspicious look. “What?”

“Our hot chocolate is superior. Rutherland: 1, Ardona: 0.”

Blaine looks surprised for a second before he breaks out into a smile that mirrors Kennedy's. “Fine, I’ll give you that.”

He heads toward a door—his room probably. “So what made you come over here? Not only for the pleasure of my company, I assume.” He gestures for Kennedy to follow him.

Kennedy thinks their heart stops. They weren't really sure why they came here, but they were sure they didn’t expect to go into Blaine’s _room_. The sudden intimacy of it stops them in their tracks. Blaine peeks out the door to look at them. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kennedy stutters, trying to appear casual and compelling their legs to move. Blaine closes the door behind them. _Don’t overthink it,_ Kennedy tells themself. And then, _Tatum isn’t going to be happy about this._

The lamp on the nightstand is on, illuminating the bedroom that also isn’t much different from their own. They don't know what they expected—Blaine is still a regular person. He pats the area next to him where he’s sat on the bed, taking a long drink from his mug. “So?”

“So?” Kennedy drags out, awkwardly perching on the bed.

“You couldn’t sleep?”

Kennedy sighs. “My mom called.”

Blaine's expression remains neutral. “What did she say?”

“I didn’t pick up. Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“What do you want to do then?”

Kennedy's heart skips a beat. He couldn’t mean—could he? They sneak a glance at Blaine to find him staring thoughtfully at the TV. Something settles over them and they can’t tell if it’s disappointment or relief. They glimpse the remote on the coffee table and grab it. “A movie, maybe?”

Blaine nods and Kennedy switches on the TV, flipping between channels. Nothing much is on at this time, and they settle on a series of late-night cartoons.

With the frivolous animation running in the background, Kennedy's mind drifts back to their mother. Coming here was a great distraction for a while, but they can’t shake off the guilt and worry creeping up on them.

“Hey.” A nudge from Blaine drags them out of their thoughts. “You still with me?”

“Huh? Oh—yeah.”

“You know, if you want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

Kennedy exhales deeply as they take the remote and turn off the TV. “There’s nothing to tell. I just can’t stop worrying about my mother’s campaign.”

“Her campaign isn’t your responsibility.”

“It feels like it is,” Kennedy says. “I feel like I should be doing _something_ at least until I decide what I want to do with my life so I can leave all of this behind.”

“Even me?”

They stop. Kennedy turns to look at Blaine, and their eyes meet. His eyes are bright in the dim light, his gaze steady. Something changes in the air between them, and Kennedy's vision narrows down to them in this very room.

_“Just let me know when you decide you actually want to be in control of your own life.”_

“Can I kiss you?” Blaine asks, voice soft.

Kennedy doesn’t dare to breathe. They move their head in a small nod, closing their eyes as Blaine’s hand comes to rest on their cheek. It’s warm from holding the mug, and they lean into it.

They wait, heartbeat picking up, feeling the shift on the bed as Blaine moves forward, until they can feel Blaine’s breath on their face. They've kissed him twice now, each time better than the last, like a gulp of fresh air, but their heart still races every time like it’s the first.

And then, a gentle brush of lips against his own. Kennedy wants more, but they don't want to press forward, to break the moment, this fragile connection between them. They let Blaine take the lead, to coax them open. Kennedy reaches out to pull Blaine closer, tilts their head, lets out a sigh against his mouth.

Blaine draws back, a sly smile on his face.

“What?”

“Guess we’re even now. Ardona: 1, Rutherland: 1.”

Kennedy forces an exasperated expression on their face, though their lips twitch. “Are you serious right now?”

Blaine just laughs and kisses them again. They don't ever want to stop. They want to keep going until they forget everything but Blaine’s touch, his skin, the way he makes them feel.

_“I’m not just some puppet for my mom.”_

They draw back slightly, unwilling to let go entirely. They place a hand on Blaine's chest, feels his accelerated heartbeat thudding under their palm. “Can we,” they say, “pretend to be two normal people, just this one time?”

It takes a second for understanding to dawn on Blaine’s face, and he fixes Kennedy with a serious look. “Are you sure?”

Kennedy knows what he means: he’s giving them an out. A chance to put an end to it. Kennedy could leave here, go back to their own bed, forget this ever happened, and they would go on as normal tomorrow. But they don't want that. “Yes, a hundred percent.”

Blaine reaches forward and takes the now empty mug from them, placing both of them down on the nightstand. He kisses them harder, with more intent, making Kennedy's head spin. They could blame it all on the alcohol—though they barely consumed enough to affect them—but their mind is clear enough to know that they _want_ this. If it all went to hell, then at least they would have this.

A small push on their shoulders, and Kennedy lets themself fall back onto the bed. As they sink down into the soft mattress, they hope they won't regret it in the morning.

* * *

Kennedy wakes to dull sunlight streaming in through the window blinds, casting shadows onto the floor. Opening their eyes to an unfamiliar room, their first instinct is to panic before it all comes back to them. They press the bottom of their palms into their eyes; they weren't supposed to stay. They were supposed to leave right after, but they'd fallen asleep, warm and sated, Blaine’s arms around them in a comforting embrace—

Speaking of, they turn onto their side and see him, still asleep, curled facing away from them. The duvet comes up to the middle of his back, his shoulder blades poking out, and Kennedy wants to touch, touch, touch. Even after yesterday night, they don't think they can ever get enough of him.

It dawns on them just how many _wants_ they've had in the last day. They _wanted_ to see Blaine. They _wanted_ to spend time with him. They _wanted_ to feel his skin, hear the sounds he would make when Kennedy kissed a certain spot or bit down on another. It’s the most selfish they've ever been.

They wait, expecting the pang of guilt and regret to crash down onto them, but nothing does. They feel… at peace, and they haven't slept this well in a long while. The time, as they see on the alarm clock on the nightstand, is barely past seven. They just want to turn around and try to get back to sleep, putting off classes and disregarding all expectations, but they know better. Burying disappointment, they slide out of bed, deliberately slow, desperate to treasure the last moments.

Their clothes are in a pile beside the bed, and they dress themself as silently as they can. As they're pulling on their shirt, the covers shift behind them, and a hoarse voice calls out, “Kennedy?”

They still. It’s the first time Blaine has ever said their name. They don't know if it’s because he just woke up and his brain isn’t functioning properly, or if it’s because of last night. Either way, they really _really_ like the way it sounds out of Blaine’s mouth—with that slight Ardonian lilt. They take a deep breath and turn around.

Blaine’s sitting up now, the comforter falling down to his waist, and the wide expanse of bare _skin_ is almost too much for Kennedy to bear. They glimpse half-moon marks where their fingernails had dug in, marring the smooth skin. Little bites litter his collarbone, mortifying them. They aren't a _teenager_ for god’s sake.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Kennedy hovers awkwardly. “Wouldn’t want anyone finding out I spent the night here. Tatum must be worried sick.”

Silence settles over the room as Kennedy figures out what more to say. Blaine hasn’t moved, his gaze focused on his hands. Just as when it grows unbearable, he speaks. “Do you regret it?”

The question stuns Kennedy into speechlessness. They hadn’t expected Blaine to second-guess their actions. He was unwavering, so sure last night. Especially when he used his tongue in that delicious way—Kennedy suppresses a shudder and brings their mind back to the conversation.

“No!” they hurry to say. They have to get _something_ out, regardless of how coherent it is. “I don’t. Not you. Never you.”

Blaine sags against the wall, rubs his eyes. He hasn't ever looked so vulnerable as he does now, in this moment. “Me neither.” Kennedy's heart flips in their chest. He opens his mouth to continue, but a loud ringtone cuts him off. He glances at the nightstand, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Kennedy lunges towards their phone, trying to still their shaky hands at Blaine’s admission. “It’s my mom,” they complain. “She always calls at the _worst_ time.” If her calling them at midnight wasn’t testament enough to that, this certainly is. They look at Blaine, nervous. “There’s no way she knows, right?”

“I don’t think so. It’s probably about something else.”

Kennedy considers letting the call go to voicemail again, but their mother won't be happy about that—and she'd find another way to contact them anyway. They stare down at the phone screen in contemplation. “Hey.” Blaine’s voice drags them out of their thoughts. “I’m here.” 

It's comforting. Kennedy nods, smiling at him. Then, they swipe to accept the call.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
